


I need you(r help)

by ThefanderfamILY



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Always read the tags to the end, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff without Plot, Fluffy Ending, Gay, Happy Ending, Heartwarming, Kids, M/M, Read at Your Own Risk, Sherlock Holmes Makes Deductions, Sherlock Makes Mistakes, Theres a diddly darn lie, in these tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-22 10:28:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17058098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThefanderfamILY/pseuds/ThefanderfamILY
Summary: Sherlock keeps tapping.





	I need you(r help)

Tap.  
Tap tap.  
Tap tap tap. 

Tap.  
Tap tap.  
Tap tap tap. 

Tap.  
Tap tap.  
Tap tap tap.

Two bloody weeks. For two bloody weeks John Watson was left without a moment of peace. The taps went in one ear and lingered in his brain, blocking out all other thought. There were times where he'd almost get one. John would sigh out his relief at the sudden silence. He would sink further into his signature seat, inhale the familiar scent of their Baker Street flat, and relax. He'd count one second, then two, then three, four, and finally-

Tap.  
Tap tap.  
Tap tap tap.

It'd start again. The incessant, ceaseless tapping. John couldn't even seem to pinpoint the worst of it. There were so many things to factor in, each one its own irritating personality trait to the somewhat lifeless tune. Tune wasn't a word to describe it, although, because that was the first exact factor. It was just taps.

One tap, pause. One tap, another tap, pause. One tap, another tap, a third tap, pause. John couldn't think of a single peice of music with that beat, let alone a peice of Sherlock Holmes' impossibly high standard. It was just an empty beat. Never changing, yet ever repeating. On and on and on. One tap, pause. One tap, two tap, pause. One tap, two tap, three tap, pause.

He'd tried to decode it once. Binary code, maybe? One zero one one zero one one one didn't amount to much when he'd looked it up, though, as he'd always somewhat known. Morse, then? Fat chance that was. He'd recorded the sound and calculated the exact frequency of cracked nails on similarly conditioned coffee-table wood, fiddled with the tempo and the gaps between each tap, yet still, nothing. There had been attempt at figuring out whether or not it was a nervous twitch, but that idea was put off the next morning when John's infamous roommate- the tapper himself- had entered the room, clad in nothing but a lazily-donned housecoat, tapping away at the case of his mobile. Needless to say, for a moment John's mind may have strayed from his ultimate goal.

He'd had enough. Two whole weeks of the same tapping noise, whether it were on a case, at home, or even in his sleep! It was enough and Sherlock had to be confronted. So John Watson made a plan.

He confronted Sherlock after a case. He knew by now that it was the best time to confront him, since the detective had the tendency to be less bitter after cracking a particularly hard one. And oh, was this one difficult. A single woman (mother of two, not including the three identical tabby cats) had gone missing three years ago, leaving behind no trace in her small rented flat. They'd searched high and for clues recently, now that they had a team of brilliant detectives to work with, but, las per usual, found nothing but a few carefully stashed vodka bottles that were, as Sherlock had deduced, "placed there by an old foe. Obviously some poorly executed attempt at revenge. They would've certainly had more luck simply breaking the bottle over her head." (To which Lestrade had added "Yes, yes indeed. I'll demonstrate with this bottle here, shall I" and mock-attempted to club the detective over the head with a peice of evidence. John had laughed, whereas Sherlock had ignored the whole interaction and gone back to looking for something useful.)  
Only one week after the tapping had started she had turned up in a nearby river, lips blue and body strangely warm for a woman dragged out of an icy river. After further investigation it was evident that the corpse was untouched. No signs of decaying or harm, no drugs in her system, not even a small trace of alcohol poisoning. It was (as Sherlock had called it, jumping up and down and squealing like a child on Christmas, when really he was a grown man hearing about a lead on a suspected-murder) the case of the decade. John Watson agreed with this for multiple reasons.

For starters, it seemed to take a decade to solve, when, in reality, it had only been ten days. Nonstop working, nonstop tapping, and more tests than John had done in a long, long time. Even though they cracked the case in record time, it felt like forever, and every time Sherlock bent over to pick up a new clue, time would stop itself and give John Watson as much time as he pleased to stare at that perfect arse.

Secondly, it was one of Those Cases. A rare type of case, one that involved all of Sherlock's brainpower, and with it, as much childlike enthusiasm as he could muster. Gasping and clapping when thinking of a new lead? Definitely. Looking at John with that excited glint in his eyes as he made a new deduction? God, yes. Sherlock Holmes worked on that case like his life depended on it, and John became more sure each time he saw that blinding smile that his one goal in life was to make him smile like that. Not just by telling him a joke, but by genuinely, wholly making him happy. Whether it were a kiss or a proposal didn't matter, as long as John got to see those high cheekbones raise even higher as much as possible.

So yes, after a case was the perfect time to confront Sherlock. In the near-peaceful, near-silent flat where they spent most (if not all) of their down-time. A warm fire burning in the hearth, the comforting feel of their thighs touching. (It was getting colder, as Sherlock had pointed out. No use in wasting perfectly good body heat.) The tap tap tap was no softer now, no matter how much John wanted it to be. It pierced his brain with each tiny sound.

Tap.  
Tap tap.  
Tap tap tap.

"Sherlock!" He yelled, and winced at the severity of his own voice. Sherlock didn't respond, much more absorbed in his book than he should've been.

"For a man who makes deductions for a living, you're not the quickest when it comes to responding to your own name."

That one seemed to catch Sherlock's attention, as John knew it would. 

"When you called out my name approximately thirty five seconds ago, I ignored you in favour of reading over my mental notes on my most recent experiment. You called it because yes, as I presumed, the pattern I've been frequently tapping is, as you would put it; driving you mad. I deduced that you'd talk to me today because we've just finished a particularly spectacular case, and because you've observed that I seem happier than usual. I can tell you that I'm not content because of the case, as you think, but because I've come up with one of my most brilliant deductions yet. And no, John, Twenty One Pilots' song Chlorine has nothing to do with that particular pattern." 

Sherlock paused for a beat to admire the shocked expression on John's face, even though it was one of his less impressive deductions. John always seemed to have such childlike interest when it came to his findings. Obviously, Sherlock Holmes had observed this many times. "The way you tilt your head to the left slightly suggests frequent use of the left ear, and since I always sit to your right, it couldn't have been from listening to my deductions. Only the left earbud on your most worn pair works, and I can see the imprint of them in the pocket of your jeans from when you carelessly stuffed them in there earlier. The tune you were humming was neither classical nor pop, and I know those are the only categories you listen to aside from alternative, which you listen to when you're particularly stressed. About what, you're about to ask, because you "don't feel stressed." You're under pressure because you're going to ask me why I've been tapping constantly, to which I will reply after you've asked the question. Back on the track of alternative music, I know you prefer more hip-hop leaning genres, with a bit of rock and maybe even goth. That rules out most bands, other than Fall Out Boy and Twenty One Pilots. Both three word bands, I'll give you that, but only one uses three-four timing in their latest album. The fifth track on the album of fourteen tracks, Chlorine, is the most popular and has a rythm that could be mistaken- by a dull mind, of course- for my pattern. I know how you enjoy following the crowd nowadays, so Chlorine it is."

John, pupils dilated, inhaled deeply. "Brilliant." He paused, then, snapping out of it, backtracked ever so slightly. "You mentioned an experiment? What is it? And what does your tapping have anything to do with it?"

"It has nothing to do with you," Sherlock stated, and stopped tapping his fingers. Simple as that. John was beyond perplexed. "What in God's name are you talking about?"

"The tapping is but a habit I've built up. I'm studying habits and how they progress. How time builds routine, how factors like location and observers do to strengthen and/or weaken a habit. It's a lazy experiment, really. After successfully forming this habit I've become much more observant, if possible. It helps me to focus while I'm... for lack of a better term, relaxing. Based on your behaviors when around me as of late, I've made quite the impressive deduction."

John struggled to keep up, but, after a moment of processing, was finally able to prompt Sherlock to continue. During this period Sherlock Holmes stared into the distance as he would were he ever on The Office, a bored and annoyed expression on his face. "Deduction? About me? And what could that be?"

Sherlock sighed, as if he wasn't excited to gloat about his new discovery to his dimwit associate. But, instead of telling John like he normally would, he leaned in and pressed their lips together, needlessly proving his deduction. 

John's reaction was immediate, lips moving desperately against Sherlock's. Why wouldn't he seize the opportunity the second he got it? He'd been fantasising about this moment for God knows how long. 

It was over too soon, though, because Sherlock pulled back to confirm.

"You're in love with me."

"God, yes."

"You have been for many years."

"I wouldn't say years, but-"

"You get aroused whenever I step out of the shower and only barely cover myself with a towel."

"Well- I... suppose you're right."

"You didn't realise how purely platonic that kiss was due to your clouded mind and lack of experience."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I'll tell you not to let this ruin our relationship, but it most likely will."

"Sherlock, you don't actually-"

"No, John. I'm not interested."

"So you kissing me was-"

"An experiment, yes. Much like the tapping. And you need some space, from what I understand, because you've just been, as the teens say, hashtag rejected. I'll go check on Miss Hudson. From what I can hear, she's broken the damn vacuum cleaner again."

John forced himself to laugh and shake his head.

"Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. Sometimes I wish that you'd really died, jumping off that building."


End file.
